


I'll Follow You Into the Dark

by fearfully_beautifully_made



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 4+1, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, And 1 Time When It's Not a Nightmare ;), Because let's be honest both of these boys probably have PTSD, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Bottoming from the Top, Comfort, Dealing With Trauma, Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Growth, Hand Jobs, Healing, Idiots in Love, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Love, M/M, Nightmares, Nightmares depict traumatic events, Or 4 Times They Wake Each Other Up From Nightmares, Oral Sex, References Past Child Abuse, References Serbia Scene In TEH, References the Morgue Scene in TLD, Rimming, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Top John Watson, soft, they're in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24123895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearfully_beautifully_made/pseuds/fearfully_beautifully_made
Summary: Sherlock's got quite an imagination, he always has. As a child, he had very vivid dreams; they come back with a vengeance after all that has happened in the past few years. Luckily for him, his best friend moved back in and has some experience with PTSD and nightmares. He seems more than willing to lend a helping hand.In short, it's a story about two men who have had a very tough couple of years and are long overdue for a little tenderness and healing. Or four times that one of the boys wake each other up from a Nightmare and one time when it is not a Nightmare. ;)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 102
Kudos: 300





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! 
> 
> It's been a really long time since I posted anything new and I feel really nervous and excited to be posting a new project again! This work (like a couple of dozen others) has been sitting around for ages waiting for me to finish the last chapter and give it some edits, so here we go! 
> 
> Normal Disclaimers: I'm terrible at summaries, tags, and titles. I do not own anything or make profits from any of these works. Please do not repost to another site without my permission. blah, blah. 
> 
> This started out because I read a Tumblr Post about Sherlock having a nightmare about killing John in TFP and I couldn't get the idea of the two of them struggling with nightmares and PTSD out of my head and here we are. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy Chapter One! 
> 
> Peace,  
> FMB

_ Sherlock _

_ Sherlock knows the precise weight of a variety of handguns; not only from research but because he has held a good many of them. There has never been a handgun that seems to weigh as much as the one he holds now.  _

_ The metal feels hot and he can feel it slip a bit in his grip as his hand shakes slightly from how sweaty his palms have grown. There’s something tenuous and terrifying living in the pit of his stomach, something that makes him tremble with fear. _

_ John is standing in front of him, his lips pinched tight together, eyes avoiding Sherlock’s gaze. He looks small somehow. And while it is true that John Watson is not a large man, he’s never looked small to Sherlock. Rather, John has always looked larger than life, always consumed Sherlock's entire field of view, from the very first moment he met him. But in this moment he looks small and sad and defeated.  _

_ “Soldiers today,” Mycroft reminds them coolly, looking down impassively at his nails.  _

_ John looks up at that, his heels click together and he squares his shoulders, the perfect soldier. “He’s right.” John tilts up his chin and his hands clench and unclench a few times at his side. Then he looks at Sherlock, his eyes clear, “You know he’s right.” _

_ “Brainpower,” Mycroft says with a nod and Sherlock doesn’t think he’s ever detested the other man more. “Go on then," he says, waving his hand as though he was swatting away a gnat. "Don't prolong his agony.” _

_ “Don’t prolong my agony,” John parrots with a small chuckle at the end, like he’s making a joke. A fucking joke. And it is simultaneously the thing Sherlock loves most and the thing he hates most about John Watson. John clears his throat and clasps his hands behind his back, Sherlock can see his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows. He gives Sherlock a short nod.  _

_ “Do it,” Mycroft spits.  _

_ “Do it,” Eurus hisses, her voice sounds like poison and it makes Sherlock’s blood turn to ice.  _

_ Sherlock doesn’t look at either of them, he can’t stop looking straight ahead at the strong, resolute man in front of him. “I can’t,” he whispers, shaking his head, his eyes filling with tears as he stares at John, his John.  _

_ “Sherlock,” John murmurs, and his voice is soft like it is when he’s soothing Rosie to put her down for the night. John takes a step closer to him, then takes another step, and another until they are the only thing in one another’s fields of vision. They are staring at one another when Sherlock feels the disconcerting sensation of John pressing his chest against the barrel of the gun in his hand.  _

_ Sherlock panics, he shakes his head and clenches his eyes shut, wishing this would all go away.  _

_ He wonders what John must read in his reaction because he reaches his hand up and brushes it along Sherlock’s cheek. “I know you’re scared,” he murmurs.  _

_ And Sherlock’s chest aches, he can’t breathe and everything is fuzzy around the edges. He can’t do this. Those three hateful words that he'd always thought he'd say one day lodge inside his throat and he thinks he might choke on them.  _

_ “I know that, too,” John whispers again, soothing him, reassuring him. “We just never quite got our time, you and I,” he says wistfully. “But there’s no choice now. All those people, Sherlock,” he shakes his head.  _

_ “I don’t care about the other people,” Sherlock forces out. He spares a moment’s thought about the casket he’d just smashed in the other room. A casket that would hold John’s body; simple, practical about death, and he feels sick. “I don’t care about other people,” he forces the words to come out again, thinking he cannot bear the thought of John’s body in a coffin, cannot bear the thought of his John being lowered into the ground.  _

_ “Well, we both know that isn’t quite true,” John murmurs, a soft smile tipping up the corner of his lips, and Sherlock can hardly bear to see it.  _

_ “John-” he starts before he’s interrupted.  _

_ “Tic toc, tic toc,” Moriarty’s voice shrieks over the speakers.  _

_ “Come on,” John says softly, grasping the barrel of the gun in his hand and holding it steady against his chest, right over his heart. John’s eyes flicker down to Sherlock’s lips, “Can I kiss you?” John whispers. “Just this once? Send me on with one small act of tenderness. Would you do this for me?” he whispers as his eyes flicker back to Sherlock’s for a moment.  _

_ Sherlock’s lips are on John’s without a second thought and John’s lips curve in a smile against Sherlock’s, even as a sob wracks its way out of Sherlock’s body. He opens his eyes to see John’s face, to see his flush and the way his eyes crinkle in the corners when he smiles, one last time.  _

_ He pulls the trigger.  _

_ John gasps a bit of Sherlock’s air into his mouth and his eyes fly open in shock before they lose the life they held.  _

Sherlock’s eyes fly open and he is awake. He’s trembling and drenched in sweat. His T-shirt is stuck to his torso and his hair is stuck to his forehead and neck. He sits up in bed, drawing his knees up before promptly dropping his head between them to breathe until the urge to vomit passes.

He’s just about to sit up again when he hears his door creak open. His head snaps up and there is John, standing in the doorway, holding a glass of water and looking exceptionally unsure of himself. “Sorry,” he murmurs as he moves toward Sherlock’s bed slowly. “You were crying out in your sleep. Calling my name,” John adds as he edges closer to his bed and holds out the glass of water. “I was sleeping on the sofa,” he explains. “I kept tossing and turning and I was afraid to wake Rosie.”

Sherlock reaches out to take the glass of water from him and drains it in one go. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” John asks uncertainly. 

Sherlock shakes his head, he can’t tell the other man. How do you tell someone that you shot them? What would John think? He’s only just moved back into 221B and Sherlock can’t bear the thought of losing him again.

“Alright,” John says with a nod. “I’ll just leave you to it, then.”

He turns but before he’s taken a step Sherlock's voice croaks out, “John.”

John looks at him once more, turning thoughtful, warm eyes on him, “Yes?”

“Would you,” Sherlock clears his throat, “That is, would you mind terribly, just staying here for a moment until I’ve regained my bearings?”

John gives him a small smile and comes over to the edge of the bed. He sits down on the edge before putting his feet up on the bed and drawing Sherlock into his arms. 

It takes Sherlock by surprise, but he goes willing into the other man’s arms, resting his head against John’s chest and listening to his slow, steady heartbeat. 

John’s fingers come up and he gently cards through Sherlock’s tangled curls. He’s quiet and calm, and it settles something inside of Sherlock. He carefully matches his breathing to John’s. Slow in, deep, deep, deep, expanding his lungs and opening his diaphragm before a slow, steady exhale through the nose. He feels John rest his cheek against the top of Sherlock’s curls. 

When Sherlock feels calm enough that he wouldn’t have to dread the long wait until the morning when he’d be able to see the other man for himself, he sits up. “Sorry,” he murmurs a bit sheepishly. He rubs his hand along the back of his neck. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

John stretches but doesn't move from Sherlock’s side, “there’s nothing to be sorry for,” he says with a small shrug. “The Lord knows I’ve had my share of nightmares.” He cocks his head at Sherlock, a crooked grin tipping up the right side of his mouth. “Why did you think I was sleeping on the sofa?”

“I’m not sorry for having a nightmare,” Sherlock says before he can stop himself. 

John stares at him for a long moment and Sherlock wonders what he sees. He wonders fleetingly if this is how everyone feels when he deduces them, exposed and bare. 

When Sherlock can hardly resist the urge to squirm under his gaze, John turns his head away and stares at the closet ahead of them. “There was one,” he starts before clearing his throat, “There was one that I had, one that was worse than all the rest.” John looks down at his hands clasped tight in his lap, “After you’d,” he pauses for a moment and Sherlock thinks with a shudder of guilt that John is going to say 'killed Mary' or 'contemplated killing him' but then John continues, “After you jumped.” 

Sherlock looks over at him then, surprised. 

“Don’t look surprised,” John says without even turning to look at the expression on his face, which Sherlock finds equal parts frustrating and (mysteriously) elating. “I had a lot of them after you jumped and they were all awful. But there was one that was worse than the others. In my dream, you were standing on the roof and I was on the sidewalk and you deduced me. You were saying things like you could tell that I thought you were a fraud because of the way I’d tied my shoes that morning. Or you knew I thought you were a liar because of the part in my hair. You knew I believed the lies Moriarty had told because of how I was standing looking up at you. I t didn’t matter," he shook his head once, "no matter what I said, you didn’t believe me. And I knew the only way to get you to get off the ledge was to convince you that I didn’t think you were a fraud.”

“John,” Sherlock whispers. He reaches out tentatively to touch John’s hand and John turns to him, flipping his hand over to clasp Sherlock’s in his. “I knew you didn’t think I was a fraud,” Sherlock assures him.

“I know that now,” John replies. “But then I’d thought if maybe I’d told you how brilliant and amazing I thought you were. If only I’d said-” John cuts himself off with a shake of the head and looks away. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just telling you I know what it’s like to have nightmares. You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” John gives his hand a squeeze. “I’ll leave you to get some rest.”

John stands up and takes a few steps over toward the door before Sherlock stops him again, “I shot you.”

“Pardon?” he asks, voice calm and gentle.

Sherlock swallows, “In my dream. I shot you,” he confesses

John returns to the bed and crawls back in beside Sherlock, kneeling so that they’re facing one another this time. 

“It was-” Sherlock trails off, his chest aches and he realizes belatedly that he has tears on his cheeks as John wipes his thumb under his eye, “With Eurus,” Sherlock says and even to his own ears, his voice sounds scared and desperate. “When she told me I had to pick you or Mycroft.” Sherlock’s breath catches in his chest and he can’t stop himself from reaching out for John. Sherlock buries his fingers in John’s T-shirt and leans forward to press his forehead against the other man’s chest. 

“Shh,” John whispers to him. “It’s alright,” he soothes. He strokes Sherlock’s back, rocking him slightly, and his lips press into Sherlock’s hair. It’s the way he soothes Rosie, and Sherlock wonders for a moment if he should be offended. But no, John adores Rosie, and if he’s treating Sherlock even a bit like her, he should feel flattered. “Has this been happening every night?” John asks.

Sherlock isn’t sure he wants to tell him, but he swallows and nods. “It varies a bit,” he confesses. “But the end result is always the same.” He shakes his head, “I’m so sorry,” he whispers. 

“Hush,” John says softly, leaning away from Sherlock so he can tilt his head back. John’s fingers cup Sherlock’s cheeks, “There’s nothing you need to be sorry for.”

“But I killed you,” Sherlock whispers hoarsely. 

“You didn't,” John says softly, reaching for Sherlock's hand and tucking it under the hem of his T-shirt. He presses his palm flat against his chest and Sherlock can feel the steady thud-thud of John's heart. “You didn't,” he repeats. 

Sherlock looks up at him, and John is staring back, his expression warm and soft. 

“You would never hurt me,” John whispers. “Never. I know you, I know all that you've done for me. You would never hurt me, Sherlock.”

“John,” Sherlock starts, his voice shaking, “You can’t know that.” He shakes his head, thinks of all of the times he’s inadvertently put the other man in danger, all of the times he’s been hurt. “I’m always hurting you.” He turns his head away from John, letting his hand drop from the hem of his shirt, “Even having the two of you here puts you in danger.”

“Sherlock?” John asks softly. “Do you not want us to live with you anymore?”

At the insecurity in his voice, Sherlock looks up at the other man, “No. Of course I want you here. More than anything I want you here,” he assures. “You and Rosie. I love her,” he murmurs. “I-” he starts before cutting himself off so he doesn’t give himself away.

“What?” John asks, his voice gentle.

“Nothing,” Sherlock says, “I don’t want you to leave. I’m selfish that way.”

“It’s not selfish,” John says and his fingers are brushing Sherlock’s curls back again. “I want to be here, too, you know.”

Sherlock leans his head against John’s chest and just breathes because there isn’t anything else he can say without saying too much. “Then stay,” he whispers, hoping that John will discern his meaning.

“Budge over,” John says softly.

Sherlock does and John slides in under the covers and settles next to Sherlock, they roll on their sides and stare at one another for a long moment. John reaches across the gap first, because he’s John and he’s always the one who’s brave, and wraps his fingers of his right hand through Sherlock’s left. 

“It helps, sometimes,” he says softly. “Not to have to sleep alone. It holds the dreams at bay.”

Sherlock’s eyes have already started to drift closed, “Stay,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” John replies and the last thing Sherlock registers before he’s asleep are John’s lips brushing across his forehead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some forewarning: this chapter's nightmare is a little dark. Please heed the tags. I have the headcanon that John was raised in an abusive home- this chapter references his childhood and features "off-screen" abuse during his nightmare. This chapter also references the morgue scene in TLD. If any of those things are a trigger for you, *please* do not read this chapter. 
> 
> I promise the end of the chapter is for healing from trauma and I promise the boys are working together to heal from their pasts. <3

_John_

Shockingly, there is no fuss about sharing a bed. John had awoken to the sound of Rosie crying upstairs the next morning and by the time he’d gotten back downstairs, Sherlock was already in the kitchen beginning breakfast prep. 'Good mornings' were shared and Sherlock presses a kiss to the top of Rosie’s curly head and all is well with the world.

Neither of them say anything about the night before.

And neither of them say anything that evening when John joins Sherlock in bed half an hour after Sherlock went in while John was getting Rosie down for the night. He deposits the baby monitor on the nightstand beside him in case Rosie cries out during the night and then he waits. 

He holds his breath, waiting to see if Sherlock will say anything, if he will tell him to leave. Waiting to see if Sherlock will ask him what he thinks he’s doing and tell him that the night before had been a lapse in judgment. Waiting for the inevitable rejection.

It's a surprise when the other man turns his head slightly but keeps his gaze on the journal in front of as he asks, “Will it bother you if I have the light on to finish reading this article about heartworms?”

John could have laughed with all of the joy bubbling up inside of his chest, but he doesn’t. Instead, he smiles, “Not at all, I’ve a Patterson novel I’ve been meaning to finish.”

Of course, Sherlock rolls his eyes at that but his teasing is gentle and makes something inside of John feel warmer than it has in quite some time. 

He wonders if he ought to have brought it up, wonders if they ought to have talked about this first. Then he wonders why they would start talking now.

And that’s how it begins, Sherlock and John sharing a bed at night, just trying to keep the nightmares at bay. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t work as well, but then the other man is there to catch them when they wake.

\----------------

_There are rules._

_John learned them very young, so young that he can’t even remember how old he’d been when he could quote them by heart. Harry had taught them to him on the nights when they laid hidden under the superman bedspread on Harry’s bed. Sheltering together, seeking comfort that neither was truly equipped to give. The rules went like this:_

  1. _Don’t leave your bedroom at night. If you absolutely have to pee, wait until you can’t hear anything._
  2. _Don’t go and get mom if you feel sick or have a nightmare._
  3. _Always pretend to be asleep, no matter what noise you hear in the living room and kitchen._



_Those three rules were enough when he was small. Enough to keep him and Harry safe. Most of the time, at least._

_And it wasn’t so much that the rules changed as he got older, it was just that they’d gotten longer and more detailed; the root of them remained the same. But by 16, the rules looked more like this:_

  1. _Do not leave your bedroom after 8:00pm._
  2. _Do not come home late, do not miss your curfew._
  3. _Do not argue with your father. You’ll never win and everyone will pay for it later._
  4. _Ignore the shouting coming from the living room; intervening only makes things worse._
  5. _No one, under any circumstances, is gay._



_It’s 9:30 and Harry is still not back yet. John is anxious, his nails have been bitten down to the quick, and he thanks God that he is not a girl so his father doesn’t care. She’s never been this late before and he can already hear his father pacing and furious that she is out this late. He knows his mother is trying to calm him down._

_He knows it won’t work._

_He hears the outside door open and everything goes deathly silent for a moment as though all of the air has been sucked out of the house._

_The silence is broken and John’s heart starts to hammer. “Where have you been?” his father yells and John feels himself shrink, feels like his heart is going to beat out of his chest._

_“Out,” Harry replies. “It’s not like you care.”_

_And now Harry has broken four of the five rules, John starts to pray, “please God, don’t let her say anything about being gay.”_

_“Out with who?” the man growls and it sends a tremor up John’s spine._

_“Please,” he begs. “Please, God.”_

_“With Clara, alright?” he hears Harry say and something in his heart breaks just a little more. “I love her and she loves me. And I don’t care what you think.”_

_John hears the impact of his father’s hand striking his sister, hears the hard thud as she hits the wall. “Please make it stop,” he whispers, clamping his hands over his ears and closing his eyes. He hates this. He hates everything._

_Even through his hands, he can hear Harry cry out in pain and he can’t take it. With a growl, he stands up and throws the door open to his room. “Stop!” he shouts as he runs into the living room._

_His father turns on him, he looks like he must be eight feet tall, his face is positively murderous, “What did you say to me, boy?” he asks and there is something inside of John that is terrified that this is it. This is the moment that he will snap and he will kill them all and the men he works with on the police force will never convict him._

_He jerks his chin up anyway, hands balling into fists at his side, “Stop,” he says again, softly, calmly. “I said, ‘stop.’” he swallows as his father takes a menacing step toward him._

_“This is my house!” he bellows at John. “I will have the respect I bloody well deserve!”_

_He turns before John can reply and brings his belt down across Harry’s back where she’s lying on the floor and something in John snaps. “I. SAID. STOP!” he roars back and he’s flying at his father, trying to wrestle the belt out of his hand._

_He blinks and when his eyes snap open again, he’s in a morgue, grabbing Sherlock’s wrist and snapping the scalpel out of his hand. He's still so angry, still so scared, just a sixteen-year-old boy who has lost control. His fist connects with the other man’s jaw._

_He blinks and when he opens his eyes once more, he sees Sherlock laying on the ground, blood covering his face. Something shifts and for a moment they’re on the pavement in front of St. Bart’s before they’re back in the morgue._

_John rubs his eyes, this is all impossible. He starts to tremble and refuses to open his eyes again. He’s not sure if Sherlock will be dead or alive at his feet if he opens them. What has he done?_

_The sound of an infant wailing forces his eyes open in an instant and then it’s Rosie in the morgue on the floor, everything is wrong he doesn't understand where he is or when he is. And John is terrified. What has he done? What has he done?_

_He covers his face with his hands. His fingers wipe tacky liquid across his skin and without looking he knows that it’s blood. A heartbeat later he is grabbed by the shoulders. When he opens his eyes, he is a teenager again and his father is right behind him, grabbing him. He has to get out of his grasp. He has to-_

“John!” 

He throws an elbow, hard, and feels it connect solidly with the man behind him. He feels a moment of profound relief when the grip on his shoulders is released.

“Ow,” the man behind him groans and suddenly he realizes that something isn’t right. 

His eyes blink open and he takes in his surroundings, his breathing erratic and heart hammering away in his ears.

“It’s alright,” the voice soothes after a moment, “Everything’s fine.”

_Sherlock._ It’s Sherlock. 

“You’re at Baker Street. You’re safe, everyone is safe.”

He closes his eyes and lets out a heavy exhale. Fuck.

“It’s okay,” Sherlock soothes and John gives a short nod in response but doesn’t open his eyes to look at the other man. “Is it alright for me to touch you?” Sherlock asks.

He nods, “Yeah,” he manages, “‘Course it is.”

A hand strokes soothingly through his sweat-damp hair. “We’re at Baker Street. It’s dark outside,” Sherlock says, “but if it weren’t we could look outside and see the bricks of the flat next door.” Sherlock strokes his fingers through John’s hair and trails them down his neck. John shudders. 

“We’re in my room,” Sherlock continues, his voice soft. “In bed currently. The bedspread is pale blue.” Sherlock’s quiet for a minute. “You don’t have to open your eyes yet if you don’t want to. Tell me four things you can feel.”

John swallows, trying to wet his lips and his parched throat. “You,” he says, his voice coming out scratchy and a little hoarse.

“Good, tell me what you feel.”

“Your tshirt,” John starts. “It’s soft, softer than any tshirt I own.” He takes a breath and lets his fingers stroke up Sherlock’s side and into his curls. “Your hair,” he whispers. “Soft, too,” he says. “It’s tangled a bit, knotted.”

“What else?”

John slides his hand down Sherlock’s neck, shoulder, and arm to one of Sherlock’s wrists, steadying himself and focusing. “Your pulse,” he says, and he feels a knot loosen in his chest. “Fast,” he adds softly, “faster than it should be. I’ve frightened you.”

“What else do you feel,” Sherlock asks in a hushed voice. “One more.”

John’s hand reaches up once more and brushes the headboard, “The headboard of our bed,” he answers. “It's cool to the touch, I can feel the grain of the wood.”

“Good,” Sherlock breathes and John can feel him calming down. “That’s good. Three things you can hear.”

John hums and feels himself settle so he can listen, “Your breathing,” he murmurs, “maybe I can feel it as much as hear it,” he muses. 

“What else,” Sherlock prompts and his hand brushes down John’s side to rest on his waist.

John listens for a long moment, “It’s quiet,” he says softly. “I can hear the traffic outside. It’s late-night kind of traffic, slower than usual.” He listens again, “I can hear Rosie moving around in her crib upstairs, she’s snoring a little bit.”

“Good,” Sherlock encourages. “Two things you can smell.”

John sighs, and leans in closer to Sherlock, pressing his forehead against his clavicle. “Detergent,” he says. He presses closer to the other man and breathes in, “Sandalwood,” he whispers. “Your stupidly expensive, ridiculously overpriced soap that I secretly love the smell of.”

“It’s not a secret,” Sherlock rumbles over his head.

John laughs, “You’re a cock.”

“It’s not my fault your love for all of my grooming and hygiene habits is so apparent.”

John laughs and shakes his head, his chest feels lighter, he feels better.

“One more,” Sherlock says softly, “What can you taste?”

“Taste?” John asks. “What are you on about?”

“5-4-3-2-1. It’s a grounding mechanism that helps people with PTSD and anxiety. Five things you can see, four things you can feel, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, and one thing you can taste.”

“Did you learn that for me?” John asks, half offended and half honored. 

“No,” Sherlock says softly. “I learned it for me.”

He opens his eyes, then, about to apologize for his rudeness when he sees that Sherlock’s left hand is holding a bloody tissue against his nose. “Fuck,” he breathes. 

“It’s okay,” Sherlock says quickly. “My fault completely. I should have known better than to grab you while you were having a nightmare. And my nose is just more susceptible to nosebleeds because it’s been broken-” 

“Before,” John interrupts, feeling nauseous. “By me.” Visions of Sherlock lying on the Morgue floor covered in blood flash before his eyes. He trips out of bed and stumbles toward the bathroom, mercifully making it to the toilet before he vomits. He empties the contents of his stomach and then proceeds to dry heaves a few more times. 

Sherlock has come to stand in the doorway and John can feel his gaze on him. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t think he can even look at the other man. 

He flushes the toilet and moves to the sink to wash his hands. “You should,” he swallows around the foul taste in his mouth, “You should take Rosie.” He nods to himself as he pours a glass of water, he swishes it around in his mouth and spits it out before continuing. “You should take her and the two of you should just disappear. Don't tell me where you're going. Mycroft can help-”

“John,” Sherlock says, coming into the bathroom and putting a hand on his shoulder.

John steps away, holding his hands out to keep Sherlock from touching him, “No,” he says, glancing up and noticing that Sherlock’s nose has stopped bleeding, at least. “No, I mean it, Sherlock.” His eyes sting but he refuses to cry. “I’m not,” he sucks in a breath. “I’m no good for either of you. I think I’ve proven that time and again.”

“John,” Sherlock says softly, and John’s heart aches with it, aches with the weight of the desire for all of the things that he should never have. “Look at me,” he pleads. 

John shakes his head, staring resolutely at the bath mat on the floor.

“Look at me,” Sherlock says again, so achingly gentle. 

He jerks his chin up and looks at Sherlock’s collarbone, he can’t bring himself to look any higher.

“John, please,” Sherlock murmurs. 

“I can’t,” he chokes out, his knees buckle and he sinks down on the bathmat, bending forward slightly and wrapping his arms tight around his waist. 

He feels Sherlock move closer and kneel in front of him, “I am not afraid of you,” he says softly but with great conviction. 

“You should be,” John spits.

“No, I really shouldn’t.” 

“Do you want to know what I was dreaming about?” he snaps, finally looking up. “The fucking morgue, Sherlock. You know, the one where I beat you to a pulp. Where you had to be hospitalized and subsequently almost murdered so I could play the fucking hero and get over myself.”

“John,” Sherlock starts. 

“You want to know how the dream started? With my dad, beating me. Beating my sister because she was in love with someone.” He shook his head, “Then I was beating you,” he swallows and takes a slow measured breath to keep from vomiting again, “And then Rosie was on the floor where you had just been and she was crying.” He covers his face as the tears come and part of him hopes that the other man will do what he asked and take his daughter from here because he can’t bear it. He can’t bear the thought of hurting Sherlock again, of hurting Rosie. 

“John,” the other man says softly, taking him into his arms like he had on that day not so long ago. “You are not your father.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he assures him. “You were in an extremely emotional state in the morgue. Dealing with your wife’s death, your guilt, your exhaustion, her betrayal. You were processing any of the emotions that you needed to allow yourself to.”

“No,” he shook his head. “But it wasn’t just then, was it? You came back from the dead and I beat you then, too.”

“Again,” Sherlock says softly, “You were dealing with your feelings of grief, and guilt, and exhaustion, and betrayal. It was a lot. It was more than anyone could have taken. Mrs. Hudson almost hit me over the head with a frying pan.”

“It’s no excuse.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Sherlock replies reasonably. “Who can say? You have PTSD, John. You have suffered from a great deal of trauma. More than a fair amount of which has in fact come from me.”

He can't place the blame on the other man, not after everything. “Sherlock,” he whispers, grateful for the generosity and kindness his best friend is showing him. He pulls back and looks at him, “What if I am a monster?”

“You’re not,” he replies. 

“What if this just keeps happening?”

“I am not a psychologist, by any means,” he starts, “but maybe stop bottling it all up? Maybe, and I know this is a stretch for us, but maybe just talk to me. And if not me, maybe a therapist. We’ll have them all vetted this time.”

John gives him a weak lift of the corner of his lips.

“I was stupid,” Sherlock says then.

“Well, now there’s something you don’t hear every day.”

Sherlock quirks a grin at him. “When we first met, I thought curing your psychosomatic limp cured your PTSD. And in your defense, you tried to tell me it didn’t, once memorably when you had me in a chokehold outside of Irene Adler’s house.”

“I despise that woman.”

“I know,” Sherlock says with a chuckle. “The point I’m trying to make is that I didn’t always take your trauma seriously and if I had, I would have done things differently, too.”

“It doesn’t excuse it-”

“No,” Sherlock agrees before John can finish. “No, it doesn't. But it does explain it and it does give us a path forward.” 

“I’ve, umm,” he swallows, “I’ve never told anyone about my father before.” He shuffles a bit so he can sit on the floor instead of kneeling and Sherlock follows suit.

“I’m not honestly surprised.”

“It just seemed like one of those things that was better off left with the other skeletons in the closet, you know?”

Sherlock nods, “I can say, as someone who suppressed an entire childhood, that I understand what that is like.”

“I just never thought I’d be in danger of being like him, you know?”

“You’re not,” Sherlock repeats, “But continue.”

“And I was so pissed when I got back from Afghanistan and found out that Harry was drinking and abusive,” he breaks off, looking at the bath to avoid looking at Sherlock. “And I thought to myself, ‘I’m never going to be like that.’ I was so certain.”

“Harry’s sober now, though, isn’t she?”

“Don’t know how you know that, but yeah. Has been for 22 months last week. She and Clara are in therapy together.”

The other man nods, then says, “I’d go to therapy with you. If you wanted me to,” he adds. 

John looks over at him, “You would?”

“Sure. If it would help.” 

“What if,” John says, “What if we just tried to talk things out? About the two of us. And I went back to therapy on my own.” 

“Whatever you want,” Sherlock tells him earnestly. “Although, in the interest of honesty, I should tell you that I have been seeing Ella on a regular basis since I got back from dismantling Moriarty’s web. We had a whole slew of things to unpack after meeting Eurus.”

“You must have,” John says with a chuckle. Then, “Sorry, I shouldn’t laugh at that.”

“No,” Sherlock says, waving a hand, “It’s fine. Truly.”

“We’re both a little fucked up.”

“Yes,” Sherlock affirms.

“You sure you want to do this,” he says gesturing between the two of them, “whatever it is, with me?”

“Yes,” he confirms. “There's no one else worth doing this with.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have triggers related to torture, specifically related to the scene at the beginning of The Empty Hearse please do not read this chapter (or at least skip over the nightmare bit- it's the part in italics). Again, this chapter won't leave you in a dark place and ends with the boys comforting one another. :)

_ Sherlock _

Nothing changes. 

That’s truthfully what Sherlock feels the most surprised about. They started sharing a bed 4 months ago and nothing has changed. They still go out on cases, Sherlock still refuses to eat sometimes (although he does drag himself to bed because it’s for John’s sake), Rosie is growing bigger every day and they’re tried hard by the almost toddler.

They still get mad at each other and they still fight, but they always go to bed together at night. That’s just how it is.

And John is sure pissed off with him tonight. Sherlock skulks into the room and changes into his pyjamas, leaving his clothes on the floor to irritate John out of spite, before throwing himself on the bed. He crosses his arms over his chest and grumbles to himself for a few minutes before picking up the journal he’s been working his way through about new life forms found in the deep ocean.

After putting Rosie to bed, Sherlock watches John out of his peripheral vision as he comes stomping into the bedroom. He doesn’t slam the door, because he’d just put Rosie to sleep, but Sherlock can tell that he very much wants to. He sees the moment when John’s eyes narrow at the clothes that Sherlock left on the floor and sees the moment that John decides to intentionally go out of his way step  _ on _ them on his way around the bed. They're both being petty but this surprises no one.

People say that he is a drama queen (and they aren’t wrong) but anyone who thinks that John Hamish Watson is not also a drama queen has never seen him dress and undress when he is mad. It’s almost enough to make Sherlock laugh or at the very least tease him, the way he violently yet meticulously attacks each button on his shirt as though it has wounded him in some way, at least it would be if they weren’t having a fight. Then he all but tears his shirt from his shoulders, before folding it relatively neatly, only to throw it into the hamper. His trousers undergo similar treatment. 

He pulls the drawer open with a bit too much force and pulls out pyjama trousers and a clean tshirt before shoving his legs and arms in to their respective holes. 

Without so much as glancing at Sherlock, he stomps into the bathroom where he brushes his teeth with more gusto than is strictly necessary and Sherlock contemplates, as he always does when he and John are fighting, informing him of the dangers of over-brushing. 

After washing up, he stomps back into the bedroom, and if Sherlock weren’t mad he’d probably say he looks cute (okay, even when he is mad, Sherlock still thinks John sulking is cute). John still refuses to look at him or speak to him but he climbs in bed just the same and picks up the novel he’s reading. Some dull Grisham travesty, Sherlock could have deduced the plot and ending with a mere glance at the back cover.

They read in silence for a while, both sneaking glances at the other and then trying to pretend that they haven’t been looking when they get caught. 

Eventually, John closes his book and returns it to the end table. He hasn’t gotten through very much and Sherlock knows from experience that John will have to go back and reread what he’d read that evening. He clicks his light off and lays down in bed.

Sherlock watches him as he closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths. After the fourth exhale, he puts his hand in the middle of the open space between them, palm up. 

That’s Sherlock’s cue, the olive branch has been extended and they both know that he will take it. Still, he carefully marks his place and sets the journal and pen he was using to take notes in the margin on the nightstand with exaggerated care before turning off the light. John huffs a breath at him but says nothing and Sherlock counts it as the victory in his favor that it obviously is before he squirms down in bed and clasps John’s hand in his.

He drifts off to the sound of John’s steady, even breathing.

\----------------

_ It’s dark and Sherlock can hear water trickling around him. There’s a chill in the air that settles over his skin and he knows instinctively that he’s nearly naked, goose pimples erupt along his exposed flesh. It smells damp, mold spores and fungus are growing in the very walls.  _

_ He knows this place. Sherlock shudders and opens his eyes.  _

_ Serbia. _

_ The man stalks around him and yanks his hair, snapping his head back and Sherlock’s entire body aches. He’d never cared about sleep before. He’s spent what probably amounted to days arguing with John about it, but all he wants now is sleep. He feels delirious and delirium is a problem because it makes you sloppy. Sherlock can’t afford to be sloppy.  _

_ A whip cracks and Sherlock has to bite his lip to keep from crying out, then it slashes his back again, a low moan escapes his throat and he gasps for breath. As his lungs are filling with oxygen the whip strikes again and Sherlock lets out a hoarse cry.  _

_ He is struck by the lack of tears in his eyes. He should have tears. This hurts, it’s a pain that fills his mind with blinding, searing intensity and he can’t even think past it. But there are no tears.  _

_ He’s dehydrated. He must be, he can’t remember the last time he had a sip of water, can’t remember the last time he urinated. It’s bad, he knows vaguely, that he’s getting dehydrated but he can’t seem to find the energy to feel concerned. _

_ “Tell us your name,” the man holding the whip says and his voice is soft, slow like molasses, soothing compared to the racing of his pain-addled mind. His fingers are in Sherlock’s hair again, pulling his head back, “Tell us your name and this,” he says gesturing with the whip, “can stop.” _

_ “No,” Sherlock replies, his voice comes out raspy and weak and he's so thirsty.  _

_ He’s struck across the face and his mouth fills with fluid, he thinks stupidly for a moment that he’s managed to produce some saliva, but then he recognizes the coppery tang of blood that has filled his mouth. He derisively spits it on the ground at the man's feet. _

_ “Who are you protecting?” the man growls. _

_ Sherlock doesn’t reply, he would never say his name, never. The whip strikes again, whipping along his vertebrae and Sherlock’s body contorts in pain, his legs give out under him and it’s only his arms being tied that keep him off the floor. He tries to get his feet under him but the man whips him again and he writhes to escape the blows. There’s a sickening pop and Sherlock screams. His shoulder’s dislocated.  _

_ The man whips him again and Sherlock continues to scream, the pain is so immense, surely he’ll pass out, how long can it keep him prisoner? _

_His captor stops whipping him only to grab his wrist and contort his shoulder further, "Maybe I'll just take one of these fingers, maybe that will loosen your tongue."_

_Sherlock's screaming as he draws his arm back further._

“Sherlock,” there are hands grasping him, and Sherlock jerks violently away from them.

“You’re alright,” a voice soothes, “It’s alright. Baker Street.” 

Something in his mind settles at those two words and he stops flailing.

“That’s it,” John breathes. “You’re at 221B Baker Street. We’re at home, in bed. We have the green sheets on the bed,” John says, “they’re my favorite, did you know? I can see our lamp on your nightstand, the shade is tilted at an odd angle because you wanted the brighter light to take clearer notes. Ummm,” John shifts and looks around, “I can see you,” he says softly, “gray tshirt, sleepy curls. At home, in our bed, safe and exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

Sherlock lets out a huge sigh and slides closer to John, seeking out the assurance that he’s there, that he is what is real not the visions of horror he's been entrenched in. “I can feel your shoulder under me,” he says, “you’re tense, which could either be a product of the adrenaline spike after my nightmare or from the tension from our argument before bed. I can feel the airflow from the fan, it’s chilly.” He reaches out and grasps John’s wrist, it’s become a grounding gesture for the two of them after a nightmare, “I can feel your pulse, faster than it ought to be, but strong and steady.” His fingers rub the sheet, “The sheets; Egyptian cotton, 1800 thread count, a gift from a client. They’re my favorite, too,” he adds.

“What do you hear?” John prompts.

“Your heartbeat,” Sherlock blurts. He clears his throat, “I don’t hear Rosie snoring, that cold must have cleared up. I hear someone shouting outside.” John repositions his body slightly, combing his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. “Mattress springs,” Sherlock finishes.

“What do you smell?”

“Lavender,” Sherlock replies, “From Rosie’s bath soap, there's a trace of it from where she cuddled into your neck before bed. Toothpaste, you switched brands to that spearmint one.”

“Taste?” John asks.

Sherlock hums, “You don’t want to know.”

“I do,” John replies easily.

“Cigarette,” Sherlock says.

“Sherlock,” John groans but he’s not angry, not like he would be if he had caught Sherlock or if Sherlock hadn’t just had a nightmare.

“I know, I know. But I hate it when we fight. It makes me tense and it’s hard to settle down when you aren’t talking to me.”

“Well, it’s not like you were exactly forthcoming yourself,” John says. “You could have talked to me first.”

Sherlock snorts, “And admitted I was wrong?”

“You were,” John says without any malice, his fingers absently massaging at Sherlock’s scalp in a way that feels positively divine. “The kettle is not an appropriate place for mold spores.”

Sherlock sighs, “I know, I’m sorry.”

He could feel John smile, “Was that so hard?” His hand slipped from Sherlock’s curls and down his neck.

“Don’t,” Sherlock gasps, jerking back from him.

“Right, sorry for gloating,” John says and he can all but hear him rolling his eyes.

“No, it's just my back,” he trails off, shaking his head.

“It’s alright,” John says softly, drawing him closer, “I won’t touch your back, come here, I’ll play with your hair like I know you like.”

Sherlock settles with his head against John’s chest and John's fingers weave themselves into Sherlock’s curls. He's right, Sherlock does love to have his curls played with.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

Sherlock pauses, “When I was away, the last leg before I came home, actually, I got caught. It was stupid, I was stupid. I was desperate to come home; I missed London and Baker Street. I missed you," he confesses, toying with the hem of John's t-shirt. "Anyway, they caught me and strung me up in a damp cellar where they beat me, trying to get me to divulge secrets to them. Fortunately, Mycroft showed up and saved me eventually but not before my shoulder had been dislocated and put back in place without any pain medication, and not before I’d gotten infections in the cuts on my back. It’s part of the reason the scars on my back didn’t heal up more cleanly.”

“I’m sorry,” John whispers into Sherlock’s curls.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

John presses a kiss to Sherlock’s curls making Sherlock’s toes tingle and the pit of his belly feel warm and  John continues talking as though Sherlock’s stomach isn’t doing backflips. “I’m sorry that happened to you. I’m sorry you were alone.”

Sherlock says nothing for a moment because he isn’t entirely sure what he was meant to say. “I know it was hard for you. My time away.”

John hums at that but he says nothing, his fingers rub at Sherlock’s scalp a bit.

“And I am sorry for that, but I hope you know that it was hard for me too, being away from you, lying to you.”

“I know,” John says softly. “I didn’t understand that at first, but I got there eventually.”

“I’m never leaving again,” Sherlock feels prompted to promise.

“Damn right you’re not,” John replies, but the gentle tone keeps the words soft and reassuring. “I can’t live through you leaving again.”

Sherlock turns his head slightly and presses a kiss to John’s chest. It’s the first time he’s ever been so bold and he finds himself momentarily petrified with fear, but John doesn’t even pause in his stroking of Sherlock’s hair to acknowledge it and Sherlock relaxes once more.

They lay together this way longer than they normally would, usually they retreat to their respective sides and simply link hands in the middle, but tonight they fall asleep, wrapped around one another, anchoring each other to the world around them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, friends, I do my best writing alone but I haven't been alone in a very long time thanks to the quarantine. I'd originally planned on this being the last chapter, but then as I was finishing it up I got the idea to write one more chapter. The last one will be sort of crack (Spoiler: it's just John waking Sherlock up from a wet dream instead of a nightmare) but I hope you'll enjoy it. I've never written a 4+1 fic before and this seemed like the perfect opportunity. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy Chapter 4 and I hope to have Chapter 5 posted soon! 
> 
> Please don't read the nightmare (the part in italics) if you have triggers related to war or people being shot.
> 
> I should also note that this Chapter is a lot longer than the others, because there's a nightmare + sexy times in this one.

_ John _

John has always been in love with Sherlock Holmes. It isn’t even really a secret because he’s pretty sure anyone with eyes (except maybe Sherlock) knows. He’s spent years of his life trying to deny it because he couldn’t be that guy who was in love with his flatmate who didn’t love him back. He just couldn’t. 

So he’s contented himself (and he has been more than content) with just being Sherlock’s... whatever he is. His best friend, his blogger, his  _ conductor of light.  _ John’s been so happy to be those things. He loves the life he and Sherlock share, there is real love present between the two of them, even if it is just the unstated love of friends and comrades as far as Sherlock is concerned. 

But their lives have changed so much in the past six months. Sharing a bed with Sherlock is amazing. John loves waking up with the other man, he loves seeing Sherlock before he sees anything else in the morning. Sherlock is so soft, so lovely first thing in the morning; it makes his heart ache in his chest to see him there, unguarded and open. It's the ultimate display of trust. 

And he loves climbing into bed together at night, there is something unbearably intimate in climbing into bed with the express purpose of sleeping. John hadn’t ever really thought about sleeping with someone just to  _ sleep _ with them before Sherlock. 

But with Sherlock, sleep, blessedly peaceful sleep, was all there is. With Sherlock, climbing in bed together means safety, it means calm, it means an end of fear and worry. Sleeping with Sherlock is the most vulnerable, intimate act he’d ever committed. 

And to say that it hasn’t leaked into every aspect of their lives would be untrue. He and Sherlock have never had strict physical boundaries, but those boundaries are now virtually nonexistent. There’s this sort of soft, unspoken understanding of the other that hadn’t been there before. John has always seen Sherlock as beautifully, erringly human. He’s always siphoned out those characteristics, looking beyond the facade of the cold, calculating mask he presents to the world but now, it’s as though that mask is gone entirely. Now, John looks at Sherlock and all he can see are those unbearably soft, fully human moments he spends with Sherlock in their bed every day. 

Somehow, it seems to John that everything has changed but nothing is different. 

\----------------

_ It’s hot. _

_ The sun is blazing and the sand has heat radiating off of it. The air is thick and it’s hard to draw in a breath deep enough to satisfy him because deep breaths make his lungs feel like they are burning. He’s drowning in sweat, it’s seeping from his pores and drenching his clothes.  _

_ There’s a weird lethargic quality to the world around him. All of his men are moving slower today, treading from tent to tent to move equipment with heavy steps, lying in their bunks, trying to stay out of the heat of the sun.  _

_ It’s quiet.  _

_ It’s quiet at their camp and it’s quiet outside of their camp. And if there is one thing John hates it’s the quiet. It makes him suspicious. He hates the calm. It makes him nervous. Inevitably, calm is always followed by a storm.  _

_ John is not in a tent. He’s standing outside, staring out toward the horizon, his back to the village behind them. He is watching the way the heat rolls off the sand in waves and he is wondering about the science behind it, wondering about what it is that makes the horizon look like it is shimmering in the heat. _

_ That’s when he hears his name being called, “John!”  _

_ But that’s wrong, his men wouldn’t be using his first name. They would be calling for him by shouting Watson, or Doc, or Captain. The voice is wrong, too. He knows that voice, even though he can’t quite place it. But there is one thing he knows without a doubt, it doesn’t belong here in the desert.  _

_ “John!” The voice shouts again, closer this time, and John turns.  _

_ It’s Sherlock. Sherlock in his stupid, heavy Belstaff coat in the desert. John just stares at him, he shouldn’t be here, this isn’t right. He tells him as much, “You don’t belong here,” he says. _

_ “John,” the other man gasps and then he collapses forward into the sand. _

_ “Sherlock!” John shouts and he dashes to his side, his feet pushing and struggling to get traction against the sand. It seems to take an inordinately long time to get to him, when he finally reaches him he rolls him onto his back. John strips him out of that stupid heavy coat, it must be heatstroke, he thinks blearily. He reaches to find a pulse on Sherlock’s neck when he sees blood bloom red on the other man’s crisp white shirt. It looks like what you’d expect to see from a bullet wound. “Sherlock!” he cries desperately as his hands tear at the fabric of his shirt, ripping it open and he paws through the blood trying to find the source of the bleeding. “Fuck!”  _

_ Then there are guns firing. He glances up and his men are flying from the tents they’re in and dashing through the sand, scrabbling for weapons. More gunshots, they’re getting closer, and Sherlock lets out a gurgling groan under him. John’s attention snaps back to him, “Sherlock? Come on,” he says, trying again to find the source of the bleed, “Stay with me, we have to get out of here.”  _

_ He looks up again and their camp is being swarmed by enemy troops. There’s more gunfire and John doesn’t know what to do, he’s panicking, completely terrified because Sherlock is lying here dying and his men are being shot and they’re falling to the ground. The sand around him is clumping together and it’s turning red; it’s sticky and hot and John can’t do anything.  _

_ “Sherlock, please!” _

“John!” a voice calls and everything around him starts to dissolve, the gunfire starts to fade Sherlock’s body turns to sand.

“No!” he gasps, jerking hard and flying upright as his eyes flash open.

“It’s alright,” Sherlock soothes, cautiously reaching out to rest a hand on his back. 

Something inside of John feels like it breaks, he turns and wraps Sherlock in a crushing hug, holding him tightly.

“It’s alright,” Sherlock murmurs again, hugging him back, “Everything’s alright. We’re at 221B Baker Street, in bed, exactly where we’re supposed to be. Everyone is okay.”

“Fuck,” John breathes.

“I’ve got you,” Sherlock whispers, cupping the back of John’s head in his palm and cradling him close.

John lets his forehead rest on the other man’s collarbone and focuses on breathing, consciously relaxing his grip on the other man so he doesn’t fracture his ribs.

“There we are,” Sherlock sighs, stroking his hand up and down John’s spine. “I can see your hair,” he says softly. “Grey and blonde,” he runs his fingers through John’s fringe. “Soft.” 

“That’s what you can feel,” John informs him, moving away slightly and resting his head back on his pillow so he can look at the other man, his face mere inches from Sherlock’s. 

He chuckles and John can feel it rumbling in his chest, he presses a palm flat against the other man’s sternum to better feel the vibrations. “You’re right. Hmm. My periodic table poster,” Sherlock says. “I can see the pillow you’ve completely rumpled and crushed beyond recovery over the past six months. The trash novel you’re reading on the nightstand.”

John huffs, the closest he can get to a laugh at the moment. Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him are admittedly helping the tension to dissolve a bit. “Right. I feel my pillow, it’s bunched but it’s supporting my neck the way I need it to so I don’t wake up with a crick in my neck, thank you very much. I feel,” he lets his hand splay over Sherlock’s chest where it is tucked safely within the confines of the other man’s arms. “Your clavicle,” he says tracing his fingertips over it, feeling a bit reckless. Then his fingers slip up the short distance to press against the pulse point in Sherlock's neck. “And your pulse, a bit too quick but nothing too bad. And I can feel these bloody awful sheets.”

Sherlock laughs, “They’re your sheets.”

“Yes,” John agrees “and I hate them.” He wiggles closer to Sherlock and settles under his chin. “Your posh sheets have ruined me for normal bedding.”

Sherlock huffs a laugh, ruffling John’s hair with his breath. 

He knows he's supposed to be listing things he can hear but instead he whispers, “I’m glad you didn’t really die,” into Sherlock’s throat because it's true and he can’t help himself. 

“John,” Sherlock says softly, his voice pained and his arms wrap just a bit tighter around him. 

“I’m sorry that it’s taken me so long to get over you jumping, to get over this constant fear of you dying.”

“John,” Sherlock says softly. “Stop,” and John can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “You forgave me remarkably quickly. I got back and then I dragged you to that train, made you believe you were going to get blown up, and easy as that you forgave me.”

“Wanker,” he says with a laugh. He draws back, “I’d forgiven you before that,” John says honestly, looking back and forth between the other man’s eyes. “But it's something I've been talking about in therapy recently, forgiving and getting over trauma are two different things. It’s taken me so long to stop feeling the trauma of you jumping. In the interest of telling you the truth,” he murmurs, “I’m still not over that fear." 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says helplessly. 

“Don’t be,” John replies and he reaches out to stroke Sherlock’s curls back off his face. “It’s my problem, it’s my brain that can’t get over it. My therapist thinks a lot of my nightmares are a byproduct of my fear of you dying between you jumping, getting shot, the dangerous lives we-”

“I wish I could take it back,” Sherlock says. 

“What?”

“I wish I could go back and not jump. Everything bad that has happened to us started there. It changed everything, it ruined us,” he says vehemently. 

“Sherlock,” John says, cupping the other man’s cheek, “It didn’t ruin us.”

Sherlock scoffs at him.

“No, stop it,” John says firmly. “I’m serious, it didn’t.  _ You  _ didn’t.”

“We could have been...” Sherlock trails off.

“Been what?” John prompts gently, his tone belying the way his heart was beating erratically inside of his chest. 

“Nothing. Never mind. If you say I didn’t run us, I didn’t,” Sherlock says defensively, his voice going cool and calm in a way that John detests.

“Don’t be like that,” John says. 

“Be like what?” Sherlock asks, pulling out of John’s grasp and sitting up.

“All closed off and angry.” 

Sherlock says stubbornly, “This is who I am. Prickly and cold, closed off, emotionally stunted,” he says, as though he is ticking off some sort of list in his head.

“No, you’re not,” John says, sitting up in bed and reaching for him. “That’s not who you are.”

“Don’t tell me what I am,” Sherlock bites out. He shakes John’s hand off his shoulder and starts to climb out of bed.

“Don’t go,” John says softly. “I’m sorry, please just...” he trails off, “Just don’t go.”

Sherlock sighs and his shoulders slump. After a heartbeat he climbs back in bed and they both lay back down, facing each other.

“I’m sorry,” John says softly, reaching his hand to the middle of the space between them and waiting for Sherlock to take it.

Sherlock’s hand slides back in his and he says nothing, he just stares at their clasped hands.

John swallows, “I used to wish,” he starts, “Back in the early days,” he clears his throat and pushes on, brave as he could ever be, as he has ever been, “that we could have been more.”

At that Sherlock’s eyes flicker up to his, full of uncertainty. 

His uncertainty makes John feel braver, “Look, Sherlock,” he says softly, “I’m not good at this. The talking bit.”

“Try,” he whispers.

John’s finger grip Sherlock’s tightly, “Tell me that what we are right now won’t change if you don’t like what I’m about to say.”

“What?” Sherlock asks, scrunching up his nose.

“If what I'm about to say bothers you or you don't want the same things,” John starts, then he shakes his head, “I don’t want to go backwards. I like what we have now, I love having this with you.”

“Me too,” Sherlock says quickly.

“Then promise me once I say this that we don’t go back to sleeping in different beds, barely talking, and struggling to get through the day.”

“John you’re making me nervous,” Sherlock says with a huff. “I promise. I don’t want anything to change either.”

After taking a fortifying breath he confesses, “I used to wish that we could be more than friends,” John looks down at where they’re hands are clasped in the middle of the bed. “I used to wish that we could be partners in every sense of the word.”

“Used to?” Sherlock whispers and John glances up to see Sherlock looking up at him from under his eyelashes.

John swallows, “I still do." He closes his eyes, "I love you, Sherlock Holmes.” When he opens his eyes again Sherlock is staring at him blankly. “But the point is that I always have, so it doesn’t change anything, please don’t freak out,” he blurts, attempting at damage control and feeling rather unsuccessful. 

“Can I kiss you?” Sherlock whispers.

“What?” John asks blankly, he’d never thought in a million years that he would hear those words.

“Sorry,” Sherlock says aghast. 

“Did you ask if you could kiss me?” John says.

“No,” Sherlock replies, flushing so red that John can see it even in the dark. “No. Why would I-”

John stops his words with his lips, pressing his mouth softly against the other man’s and stroking his cheekbone with his thumb. 

Sherlock lets out a soft moan against John’s lips that positively wrecks John. He moves his lips gently against Sherlock’s and Sherlock shudders and squirms closer to him. Looping his arms around Sherlock, he pulls him closer still until the other man’s body is pressed tightly against him from chest to thigh and John’s very blood is singing with joy at his proximity. 

He pulls back after a moment and brushes his fingers over Sherlock’s cheek. “Are you alright?” 

“Ummm,” Sherlock hums, his eyes blinking open dazedly.

“You’re shaking,” John says softly, stroking his hands over Sherlock’s arms and shoulders.

“You love me?” Sherlock asks.

John lets out a self-deprecating laugh, “I’ve loved you for years, it’s honestly a little pathet-”

Sherlock stops him from talking by sloppily pressing their lips together again. “I love you, too,” he says into the kiss.

John pulls back, “Really?”

Sherlock nods and leans in again. John kisses him softly, “For how long?”

A wrinkle forms between his eyebrows, “Why?” Sherlock asks suspiciously.

“Just curious,” John replies, soothing the wrinkle away before stroking Sherlock’s hair back.

“The pool,” Sherlock says softly, before looking up at John, his eyes daring him to challenge it.

“I think I’ve loved you since that first night, the first time I chased you through London. I felt it in my chest when we got back to Baker Street and were leaned against the wall laughing like mad men. But I  _ knew  _ I loved you when Irene showed up. The jealousy, it was consuming and I’d never in my life felt jealous like that, I never have again about anyone else.”

Sherlock leans their foreheads together, “We’re idiots.”

“Well, most everyone is,” John teases.

Sherlock tilts his lips up and presses them against John’s once more. John wraps his arms around the other man and draws him closer and proceeds to get lost in the other man’s taste and smell, to get lost in how ludicrously good his skin feels. So lost is his mind that before he even realizes what he's doing, his hands have slid up under the other man’s shirt. 

Sherlock gasps and the gasping tears his lips away from John’s and that is enough to bring John back to the present. “Shit,” he says, removing his hands from under Sherlock’s shirt. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Sherlock asks, raising an eyebrow at him and looking genuinely puzzled.

“I just,” John shakes his head, “I want to do this right.”

“This being....” Sherlock asks, his eyebrow arching even higher.

“This,” John says, gesturing between the two of them, “Us. Sherlock I’ve waited an eternity for you and I don’t want to spoil it because I can’t keep my libido under control.”

“What if I don’t want your libido under control?” Sherlock asks and his fingers brush tantalizingly down John’s torso.

“Is this really how you want us to start?” John asks incredulously. “You want us to start our relationship making out in bed like teenagers and fumbling around?”

“I can hardly imagine that you are the type to fumble your way through a sexual encounter,” Sherlock says with a chuckle as he leans in and nips at John’s chin.

“There are a thousand things we should talk about first,” John says, stubbornly ignoring the delightful way Sherlock is licking and nibbling at his neck. “I should take you to dinner, or you should take me to dinner, or something." Sherlock sucks lightly at his collarbone and John almost loses his train of thought, "Don’t you see anything wrong with starting our relationship this way?”

“John,” Sherlock says, and it sounds just like the times he says John's name when he about to explain a detail of a case that he finds particularly obvious, “We are not ‘starting’ our relationship. We’ve been best friends for 8 years.” Sherlock swallows, “We’ve loved each other for eight years. We have had," he pauses and thinks for a moment, "one thousand, seven hundred, and sixty-two dinners together. Give or take a few." He waved it off, "Doesn't matter, the point is we aren’t starting our relationship, we’re continuing it.” He chuckles and presses his lips to John’s once more. “When was the last time you waited eight years to have sex with someone?”

John laughs, he can’t help it. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I am," Sherlock agrees, "A ridiculous man redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your love," he pauses and John is afraid for a moment that he's going to start weeping at having those words said to him again after so much has happened between the two of them. "But am I wrong?”

“No,” John says, “You hardly ever are.”

“Mmmh,” Sherlock hums low in his throat, “That is certainly a promising way to start stroking my ego.”

“Ego, hmm?” John says with a quirk of his lips. He let his hands slip under Sherlock’s shirt again, his thumbs brushing over Sherlock’s hips, “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

Sherlock lets out a laugh that turns into a moan as John’s fingers slide up his torso, he finds a nipple and he starts to tease it. “Oh,” Sherlock breathes in wonder, instinctively leaning away from John a bit to give his hands more room. 

And John has never felt more in love with him than he does in this moment, this moment when he can see how much Sherlock consciously and subconsciously desires him. “Have you done this before?”

Sherlock shakes his head and his mouth drops open as John lightly pinches his nipple. John sucks on the other man’s bottom lip, continuing to roll and pinch the delicate flesh, something primal and protective unfurling his chest at the thought of being the only person to ever touch Sherlock this way. Perhaps even being the only person Sherlock has ever wanted to touch him this way because he can't imagine that Sherlock couldn't have had anyone that he wanted.

He teases his nipple for a long moment more before gently nudging Sherlock over onto his back and pulling his t-shirt off. 

Sherlock squirms to help and then reaches for the hem of John’s t-shirt, tugging at it as he bites his lip. 

John straddles Sherlock’s hips and finishes pulling his shirt off over his head before tossing it onto the floor.

“My, my,” Sherlock says, his voice goes a bit breathy as John leans forward and presses their chests together, “I never thought I’d see the day you threw your clothes on the floor.”

“Better than getting tangled in them by leaving them on the bed,” he remarks before leaning in and sucking Sherlock’s lower lip into his mouth, nipping at it with his teeth before soothing it gently with his tongue. 

Sherlock whimpers and his hips press upward in an obvious bid for friction. 

“You’re perfect,” John sighs before kissing his way down Sherlock’s neck, sucking at his right collarbone as he makes his way to his right nipple and takes it into his mouth. 

“John,” Sherlock moans, back arching in pleasure as John sucks and flits his tongue over the pebbled flesh. His hands clench against John’s shoulders holding him tightly as though he’s afraid John will disappear if he lets go.

John kisses over to the center of his chest, dropping a kiss on the bullet mark, something dark panging in his chest. “I love you,” he breathes. “I’m never going anywhere,” he promises.

“I love you, too,” Sherlock whispers, his fingers stroke through John’s hair, and John tips his head down to kiss his chest again. “John,” he murmurs, arching against him.

“Hmm?” he asks as he slips over to the other nipple, sucking it lightly into his mouth and flicking it with his tongue.

Sherlock arches and John can feel the insistent heat of his erection pressing against the crease of his thigh. “Please.”

“Oh,” John hums, letting his tongue lave over the pebbled flesh. “That’s so hot,” he groans. 

“What is?”

“The word please coming out of your mouth.” John brings his mouth back up to Sherlock’s and kisses him again, cupping the back of his head with one hand while the other strokes over his rib cage and down his side.

Sherlock’s head tilts back as John’s hand stops at his hip, “John,” he breathes. 

In that moment, John decides exactly what he wants to do. He presses his lips to Sherlock’s again, then he trails his lips down Sherlock’s neck and chest, licking, and sucking, and nipping at his skin as he goes. 

The other man arches up against John’s lips wherever they touch, letting out soft moans and whimpers that ratchet John’s arousal up higher and higher. 

Sherlock freezes when John’s tongue dips inside of his belly button and John can feel the other man’s erection twitch against his chest as though Sherlock has just figured out what John’s final destination will be. Which, to be honest, turns John on even further.

He teasingly tugs at the hair trailing into Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms with his teeth. 

Sherlock lets out a low moan and John looks up the planes of the other man’s body to see his face. He’s biting his bottom lip between his teeth and has his eyes clenched shut tightly as if in concentration. 

“Relax,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the hip bone jutting out above his pyjama bottoms. “Just enjoy,” he murmurs into the warm skin where Sherlock’s hip starts to turn into his groin. He slips his fingers into the band on the other man’s trousers, slowly drawing them down, revealing his skin inch by glorious inch and pressing kisses to all of the skin he’s revealing. 

“John,” Sherlock whines, his hips rolling restlessly.

“I’ve got you,” John promises, lifting the elastic of his pyjamas up and tugging them down his thighs and off, leaving Sherlock in nothing but a pair of very tight-fitting pants that leave nothing to John’s imagination. He leans in and nuzzles against Sherlock’s bollocks, inhaling the heady scent of the other man’s arousal. 

“John,” Sherlock whimpers, his hips are giving tiny abortive thrusts and John takes pity on him, carefully grasping the elastic of his pants and freeing his cock. He takes Sherlock’s pants all of the way off and has to give himself a moment to take in the beauty that is Sherlock Holmes. 

He’s got scars all over his body, some smaller than others and John yearns to hear the story behind every single one of them. In his mind’s eye he can see it, a stormy afternoon that they spent in bed, touching scars and trading stories about how they received them. Something aches in his chest at the mere thought. 

He trails his fingers through the downy-soft hair on Sherlock’s thighs, the hair there is so dark, a stark contrast to his fair skin. He allows his eyes to trail up Sherlock’s thighs to the other man’s lovely erection lying flat against his stomach, a pool of fluid leaking onto the flesh below his belly button. His cock is more slender than John’s is but it must be nearly as long, Sherlock is aroused enough that his foreskin has pulled back, revealing the plummy head of his erection and John’s mouth waters at the sight of it. 

“John?” Sherlock asks.

John looks up at his face then and realizes that the other man is nervous, as though there could be a single part of him that John wouldn’t absolutely adore. “You are the single most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” he says and his chest aches with the truth of that statement. 

Something softens in Sherlock’s eyes at that, the tension draining out of his body. 

He gives him a smile before leaning down and burying his nose and mouth in the hair at the base of Sherlock’s cock, exhaling hotly over his skin and reveling in the way Sherlock twitches against him. 

“John,” he gasps. “Are you-” he starts, then trails off. 

John sits up slightly to look at his face and sees that Sherlock is biting his bottom lip once again, looking shy and John falls a little more in love with him even though he never would have believed that to be possible. “Planning to suck your cock? Yeah,” he replies with a grin, finishing the thought Sherlock hadn’t been able to say.

The other man's cheeks flush and he bites down on his lower lip hard.

John leans down, keeping his eyes trained on the other man’s face, and breathes along Sherlock’s shaft. Sherlock’s hips jerk and his cock leaks more fluid onto his stomach. “Fuck but you’re perfect,” John breathes. 

He grasps Sherlock’s cock loosely in his fist and brings the head to his mouth, licking at the slit and humming as Sherlock’s flavor bursts bright over his tongue. “John,” Sherlock chokes through a gasp.

Drawing back for a moment, he rubs his thumb against Sherlock’s frenulum, saying, “It’s been a while since I’ve done this, but it’s like riding a bike, I imagine it will come back to me.” He winks at Sherlock’s stunned face and lowers his mouth onto Sherlock’s cock. 

He groans when he feels Sherlock’s cock twitch in his mouth and he starts to suck in earnest, bobbing his head up and down. He lets his saliva leak out of his mouth until his hand working the bottom half of Sherlock’s cock is wet. 

“John,” Sherlock moans, his hips pressing up, moving in tandem with his mouth and his hand. He looks up to see that Sherlock has grabbed the headboard, his head is thrown back in apparent ecstasy and if that isn’t the hottest thing John has ever seen, he doesn’t know what is. 

With a moan, he lets go of Sherlock’s cock so he can sink down all of the way, swallowing Sherlock deep into his throat. 

Sherlock wails, “John,” he gasps, “John!” 

John raises up and takes a deep breath before sinking down again, swallowing him down. His hand drifts down and he fondles Sherlock’s heavy testicles and he can’t help but let out another low moan of pleasure. 

“John!” he begs, “Fuck,” his hips are undulating, trying to press himself in and out of John’s mouth, “I’m going to-” he stops to let out a high, keening whine. “Fuck,” he says again and his fingers slip into John’s hair, not pushing or pulling, just holding on. “Yes,” he moans as John sucks his way to the top of his cock, swirling his tongue around the head before sucking him down again.

“I-” Sherlock cries out, “Yes, uhh, I’m going to-” 

He tugs at John’s hair, trying to get him to pull off but John sinks down on his cock, pressing him in deeper and deeper until his nose is buried in Sherlock’s pubic hair. Then he swallows and Sherlock’s entire body tenses before he cries out and empties down John’s throat. 

It’s been a while, so John doesn’t quite manage to swallow all of it, but he does a passable job. When Sherlock’s cock stops twitching he carefully pulls off, licking Sherlock clean as he goes.

He flops over on his back next to Sherlock, trying to catch his breath and work the ache out of his jaw. 

“That was...” Sherlock trails off and John turns his head to look at the other man.

Sherlock is staring up at the ceiling as though it holds all of the answers to life’s mysteries. He can’t help but feel a bit smug, “Yeah?” he murmurs, rolling onto his side and pressing a kiss to the other man’s cheek.

He turns his head, “Wow,” he breathes.

John can’t help it, he leans in and kisses him, positively giddy with the delight of reducing Sherlock to incoherency. 

“I love you,” Sherlock murmurs when John draws back to let them both breathe.

Placing a kiss on the tip of Sherlock’s nose he says, “I love you, too.”

“Can I?” Sherlock asks, hand trailing down John’s stomach, fingers scratching at the trail of hair below his belly button. 

“Yeah,” John breathes, leaning in to kiss him again. “If you want.”

“Will you,” Sherlock starts, then looks down.

“What?”

“Tell me what you like?” he asks. “I’ll learn and I’ll deduce,” he adds quickly, as though he’s worried that John is going to reject him. “I just want to make you feel good.”

John’s heart aches, surely there isn’t enough room in his ribcage for the way his heart is expanding. “Oh, love,” he breathes, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s head, “You will. No matter what. But, yes, I will tell you what I like.” Thinking quickly about what will be easiest for Sherlock in his inexperience, he says, “Sit up against the headboard.”

Sherlock scrabbles up, propping the pillows up so that he can sit comfortably. 

He pulls off his pyjama bottoms and his pants, trying not to feel self-conscious in front of the Adonis that is Sherlock Holmes. 

He’d needn’t have worried. When Sherlock looks up and sees that John is naked his jaw literally drops and John would be lying if he said that wasn’t extremely gratifying. 

With trembling fingers, Sherlock reaches out and trails his fingertips along John’s erection, “I’m an idiot,” he mumbles.

“Sorry?” John asks with no small amount of amusement. 

His eyes snap up from John’s cock, “Don’t get me wrong, I deduced that you were well endowed, but I didn’t imagine that you were quite  _ this _ well endowed.” 

He chuckles and leans forward to press a quick kiss to his lips, murmuring, “Spread your legs for me.” Sherlock does without hesitation and John turns, slotting his back firmly against Sherlock’s chest, feeling the other man's soft penis pressed between Sherlock’s thigh and his hip.

He can’t help but sigh at how good it feels to feel this much of Sherlock’s skin on his own. “You feel so good,” John breathes, it feels like he’s come home, like he could actually rest here.

Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s stomach, pulling him closer and pressing soft kisses along John’s neck and shoulder. 

John relaxes further, leaning his head back on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I like to be touched,” he murmurs in response to Sherlock’s request. “Not just my cock but everywhere. My nipples, my stomach, my thighs.” 

Nodding, Sherlock’s hands start to move, caressing John’s skin, starting with his thighs. He rubs his palms over John’s thighs. 

“Yes,” he murmurs, “Don’t touch my erection yet.” Sherlock trails his nails up the inside of John’s thighs and John’s cock throbs. “Just like that,” he says. “That’s so good, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s breath catches and he buries his face in John’s neck.

“You like that?” John murmurs, reaching back to rub Sherlock’s scalp. “You’re so good, Sherlock.”

A soft moan escapes Sherlock’s lips. 

“You’re perfect,” John whispers. "I adore you." 

Sherlock slides his hands up over John’s torso, stroking over his stomach and then up to his nipples. 

“Yeah,” John groans. “Yes, Sherlock. Pinch them,” he whispers. 

Without hesitation, Sherlock pinches and rolls John’s nipples between his fingers and it sends electricity through John’s body, zipping straight to his cock.

“Fuck, that’s good.”

Sherlock sucks lightly at John’s neck, obviously peeking over his shoulder to watch what his hands are doing. 

“Do you like that?” John asks, “Do you like watching what your fingers do to me?”

He nods and John tilts his head to the side, leaning back a bit to give him a better view. 

“Reach between my legs,” John murmurs, “Touch my balls.”

The sound of Sherlock moaning as his hand slides down John’s torso is one of the most erotic John has ever heard. 

Sherlock cups his balls, massaging them and rolling them in his palm. John spreads his legs, lifting his feet to the outside of Sherlock’s shins and giving the other man plenty of room to maneuver. “Sherlock,” he moans. “That feels so good.”

Lips press against John’s shoulder as Sherlock’s unoccupied hand slides down his abdomen and over his thigh, brushing feather-light fingers against his skin.

“Fuck,” John groans, his body arching against his consent to get Sherlock’s hand where he’s so desperate to have it. 

“Now?” Sherlock asks, trailing his fingers along the inside of John’s thigh.

John nods breathlessly, “Yeah.” 

Sherlock takes his erection in his hand, brushing his fingers tentatively over his skin. 

For a moment, everything feels completely surreal; he can’t believe that Sherlock is here with him, touching him this way. It seems impossible that  _ Sherlock Holmes _ could want him, could  _ love  _ him. “Am I dreaming?” he blurts.

Sherlock huffs a laugh and his hand tightens minisculely around his cock. He turns his head and sucks John’s earlobe into his mouth before saying, “If you were, would you want me to tell you?”

“Definitely not,” John says fervently as Sherlock draws down his foreskin and traces the tip of his finger around the head of John’s cock, smearing his precome. He feels almost lightheaded as he watches Sherlock’s hands on his erection. After a heartbeat, he turns his head toward Sherlock and presses their lips together. “I love you,” he murmurs.

Sherlock pecks his lips once more, “And I you.”

He reaches over toward the nightstand, arching slightly and subsequently pressing his cock through the ring of Sherlock’s fist, and pumps a few squirts of lotion on his hand. “Here,” he says, bringing his hand to his cock and nudging Sherlock’s away momentarily. 

“I should have thought of that,” Sherlock says and John can hear the frown in his voice.

John watches as Sherlock’s hand closes around his cock once more and groans at how spectacular it feels to have someone else touching him. “It’s alright,” he assures. 

The other man strokes his cock slowly and it makes John’s hips roll at how good it feels. He switches hands so that his left hand is stroking John’s cock and John can’t even think to wonder why but a moment later, Sherlock’s right-hand returns with another pump of lotion and he massages John’s balls.

“Fuck,” he gasps, reaching back with his left hand and clasps Sherlock’s hair in his fist. His hips tilt upward, angling Sherlock’s hand downward over delicate skin that hasn’t been touched in a very long time. 

“Alright?” he asks as he rubs his fingers against John’s perineum with just the right amount of pressure.

John’s cock twitches in Sherlock’s grasp, “Yeah,” he groans, spreading his legs further. “Perfect.”

The other man’s confidence is clearly building with the praise, he strokes his fist over John’s cock a little quicker, making that channel of his fist a little tighter. 

“Yes, fuck,” he groans. “Can you,” he breaks off to let out a moan, “Huh, add a little twist at the end?”

Sherlock nods and does just that, his hands working perfectly in tandem, making John slowly but surely lose his mind.

“This isn’t going to last long,” he manages, it’s been forever since he’s had anything but a rushed wanking session in the shower.

“That’s alright,” Sherlock purrs in his ear and John wonders vaguely if his voice always sounds that sexy or if he’s dropped it even lower for John’s benefit. “There’s always next time.”

John groans, imagining the two of them having sex in an infinite number of 'next times' for the rest of their lives. “Yes,” he breathes.

“Maybe next time,” Sherlock starts as he goes back to cupping John’s testicles in his palm, “you can fuck me.”

John whines, he can’t help it. 

“You can open me up,” Sherlock murmurs, his hand moves a bit faster over John’s cock. “And stretch me,” he moans in John’s ear and it makes his cock jump in Sherlock’s grip, precome dribbling from the top. “Then you can press inside of me and make me beg.”

“Yeah,” John whimpers.

Sherlock nods, “Would you want to take me slow or fast?” 

“Slow,” John groans. 

“Tell me about it,” Sherlock requests, his hot breath tickling John’s ear and making him squirm.

“I’d want to open you up slowly,” John manages before sucking in a breath at the way Sherlock’s fingers grip him a bit tighter. “I’d make sure to focus on your prostate while I’m opening you up, tease it until your cock is weeping.”

“Yes,” Sherlock hisses.

“Then I’d press inside of you nice and slow,” he says and Sherlock slows down the way his hand is stroking him. “Yeah,” John groans, rolling his hips to press through the channel of Sherlock’s fist. “I’d want to watch your face when I enter you.”

“I’d like that, too,” he encourages, pressing a kiss to John’s neck.

“I’d take my time, let you adjust around my cock, line up just right so that I can hit your prostate over and over and drive you wild.”

“Yes,” Sherlock moans. 

“And then once you were ready I’d start to pick up my tempo,” he says, closing his eyes and picturing it in his mind; Sherlock splayed out on the bed beneath him, sweat glistening all over his body, curls clinging to his face as he writhes and moans. His hips start to roll a little faster in response. “You’re beautiful like that,” he adds and Sherlock groans again. “Open and writhing. And I want it to last forever,” he breathes, “I never want to leave your body but the pressure will get to be too much for both of us.”

“Definitely,” Sherlock replies, he’s panting a bit in John’s ear and his hips are rolling, rubbing his cock off against John’s hip. 

“You’ll be begging me, so I’ll go a little faster,” he says, groaning when Sherlock’s hand does exactly that, “and then faster still, you’ll have to hold the headboard for support.”

“John,” he moans.

“Yeah,” he pants, “Yeah, you’ll sound exactly like that. Desperate and in love,” he reaches between their bodies to awkwardly wrap his hand around Sherlock’s erection. 

“So in love,” Sherlock responds.

And something in John’s heart clenches at that being what Sherlock’s mind grabbed onto. “So in love,” he repeats. “The both of us.”

Sherlock nods against John’s back, his forehead pressing into his shoulder as he moans.

“And I’ll want you to come first,” John says. “You’ll be so close, staring up into my eyes, moving with me, against me.” 

Sherlock nods again, “Yes. Make me come,” he begs.

“I will,” John promises, “I’ll look right into your eyes and I’ll say, ‘I love you, Sherlock,’ and you’ll come.”

He moans, hips jerking unevenly as he presses his cock against John’s hand.

“And you coming around me,” he gasps a breath in as Sherlock strokes him hard and fast, twisting with just the right amount of pressure. “Fuck,” he manages. “Yes, your body clenching around me will push me,” he feels Sherlock’s cock pulse and a weak stream of ejaculate escapes as he comes a second time, which John finds impressive and ridiculously sexy. “And I-” he breaks off on a whimper.

“You’ll come for me,” Sherlock breathes into his sweat-slicked skin and John does just that.

He groans as he comes and Sherlock continues stroking him through his orgasm, smearing his come along his cock. It has been an extraordinarily long time since John has come that hard, his body all but collapses, trembling against Sherlock. “Fuck,” he whispers. 

Sherlock wraps his arms around John, holding him tightly against his chest and pressing delicate kisses into his skin. “I love you.”

With a grunt and a mammoth amount of effort, John manages to untangle his legs from Sherlock’s and turn so he’s straddling the other man’s hips. He cups his face in his palms, “I love you, too,” he presses their lips together, “so much.”

Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s waist and pulls their chests flush against each other as he kisses him, sweet and soft and John’s body aches with love for him.

When they draw back, Sherlock rolls them, pressing John down onto the mattress. “Wait here,” he murmurs into John’s lips.

“Yes, sir,” John manages through a yawn.

Sherlock gets up with a soft chuckle and John watches him pad over to the bathroom and fetch a flannel. When he comes back he kneels beside John and starts to clean him off. 

“Oh,” John hums, “Are you going to do it for me?”

Sherlock looks up, looking a bit uncertain.

“It’s very sweet,” John adds, because it is. “It’s nice to be taken care of. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Sherlock says sincerely.

He leans up and steals a kiss as Sherlock finishes washing him off and, after tossing the flannel vaguely in the direction of the loo once more, they settle in to sleep. John lays on his back and Sherlock curls into his side, pillowing his head on his chest. He trails his fingers lightly up and down Sherlock’s arm and he can’t ever remember feeling this content.

“Me either,” the other man whispers and John realizes he must have said that aloud.

He brushes a kiss to Sherlock’s curls and they’ve started to drift off a bit when John remembers something, “Sherlock?”

“Mmhmm?” Sherlock hums sleepily.

“Why can you see heat? Like in the desert, why do horizons look wavy?”

“You can’t see heat,” Sherlock says, rubbing his fingers gently along John’s ribcage, and John starts to say you can, because he’s seen it, but Sherlock continues, “What you see on a hot day is a product of the air coming in contact with a hot surface and getting hotter, thus becoming less dense. Less dense air rises and refracts light less than the air around it. The refraction keeps changing, thus giving the illusion that a horizon is shimmering.”

“Brilliant,” John says with a happy sigh. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Sherlock nuzzles sleepily against John’s chest and it’s probably the most adorable thing John’s ever seen.

“Sleep well, my love,” John murmurs.

“You, too,” he replies.

And sleep well, they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you soon for Chapter 5 the Bonus Smut Chapter!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, lovelies, here's the last chapter. Thank you for all of your kind words throughout this work! <3 
> 
> Enjoy!

_ Sherlock _

And so life goes on. Rosie will never remember a time when her daddy and her papa were not together, will barely even remember a time when they weren’t married. In some ways, nothing changes. They still bicker like an old married couple, they still solve cases, John still scolds Sherlock for not being careful enough, they still raise Rosie together, they still love and protect one another fiercely, and they still go to bed together every night.

The nightmares become less and less frequent as time goes on and as the two of them open up further to one another and continue to put in the work with their therapists. But they don’t stop entirely, they still sneak up on them from time to time or when they have a close call or a particularly trying day. 

And then sometimes, one of them finds themselves being woken up for an entirely different reason.

\-------------

_ Sherlock is on his hands and his knees. He feels quite comfortable, his head feels like it's swimming, and there is definitely the delightful hum of arousal coursing through his body and pulsing warm in his groin. He moans as he feels John’s tongue trail over the crease between his buttocks teasingly.  _

_ He lets out a soft whimper, silently begging for John to go deeper, to spread his cheeks properly and positively wreck him. John, as is his custom, does not give in easily. Instead, he pulls away and flops over onto his back, settling his shoulders between Sherlock’s knees and flicking the tip of his tongue over the slit of Sherlock’s cock.  _

_ Sherlock moans, wanting nothing more than to lower his hips and press his cock between John’s lips, so he does. For a moment, everything is perfect, John sucks on the head of his cock, slurping obscenely like it’s a melting ice-lolly and it makes Sherlock’s head feel like it’s going to explode. “Yes, fuck,” he breathes as he slips further and further into John's mouth. _

_ Then, even though he can’t see it, he can tell that John’s eyes are smirking as John reaches out and grabs Sherlock’s hips. He pushes upward, dragging Sherlock’s cock out of his mouth until only the very tip remains once more. _

_ Sherlock whines at him, but John ignores him once again and continues to tease his cock with the tip of his tongue, lapping at it like a kitten laps up cream. Sherlock looks down and watches as John teases him, licking up the beads of precome before they can fully form.  _

_ He is beautiful, radiant as the sun, Sherlock thinks, his skin is practically glowing and looks warm to the touch. Sherlock loves him. He aches with how he loves him, he longs to drink his fill of love for John but knows no matter how long he is able to spend loving this man, it won’t be half enough. _

_ John tilts his head back slightly and their eyes lock on one another’s. He smiles at him before drawing Sherlock into the heat of his mouth once more, letting him sink down, down, down inside of his mouth until he is engulfed fully.  _

_ John’s eyes shutter shut in pleasure and he moans around Sherlock’s cock. It makes his hips twitch, like it always does, the feeling of John’s moans around his sensitive flesh. John gives him another long moment inside of the glorious heat, his throat swallowing around him and working his cock before he draws Sherlock’s hips up once more. _

_ Gently, he presses upward until Sherlock’s cock is no longer in his mouth, and Sherlock groans in displeasure, shivering slightly as the cold air caresses his wet erection. John presses a dainty kiss to the very tip before slipping back out from between his legs and returning to his former position behind Sherlock. _

_ He cups Sherlock’s buttocks in his palms, squeezing and massaging. Sherlock can’t help the loud moan that escapes. John knows he loves this, knows that he loves feeling just a little vulnerable, just a little exposed.  _

_ Without seeing him, he knows that John is grinning, his eyes crinkling with delight around the edges. John loves this, too. His thumbs slide into the crevice of Sherlock’s buttocks, stroking lightly over the sensitive skin he’s found until a moment later when they spread Sherlock’s buttocks wide for his perusal. _

_ Sherlock moans, loudly, his cock dripping precome onto the sheets as John  _ **_looks_ ** _ at him. He loves that, he is about to beg when he hears something.  _

_ Or more accurately, someone. Calling his name.  _

_ The world around him starts to fade and Sherlock reaches for it, trying to cling to the lovely, warm sensations.  _

_ He realizes he’s dreaming but still reaches for the dream again, for John and his hands and lips. _

“Sherlock,” John murmurs softly and Sherlock feels a kiss being pressed against his shoulder. “It’s alright, love,” he whispers, his fingers card through Sherlock’s hair. “Just a nightmare.”

“S’not a nightmare,” Sherlock moans, rolling over so he can flop on his back.

“Yes, it was, darling,” John says patiently, as though he thinks some horror is still haunting Sherlock and even now making him believe that it is real. “Just a dream,” he murmurs. “You’re safe, here in our bed.”

“A dream, yes,” Sherlock clarifies, blinking his eyes open at his husband. “Nightmare? Definitely not.”

“Oooh,” John says, raising his eyebrows and resting his chin on Sherlock’s chest, his eyes twinkle with mischief and Sherlock loves him. “Did I wake you from a dirty dream, love?”

“You woke me from quite a spectacular dream, I don’t know if I can forgive you for it,” he says with mock gravity.

“Is that so?” John asks. His hand slides down Sherlock’s abdomen and sneaks into the waistband of his pyjamas and pants. Sherlock lets out a huff as John wraps his fingers around his semi-erect penis and pumps his fist slowly. “Why don’t you tell me a little about it and we’ll see if I can make it up to you?”

Sherlock feels himself blushing, a ridiculous reaction, that he hasn’t found a way to control in the past five years, to the prospect of saying  _ things _ aloud. It’s absurd and if he didn’t love John so much he would probably hate him for making him feel like a blushing virgin when he is anything but.

“Oh, come on,” John murmurs, pressing a kiss to the center of Sherlock’s chest. “Tell me,” he cajoles. 

“Well,” Sherlock starts, swallowing and closing his eyes so he’s not looking at the other man. “I was on my hands and knees-”

“Ooh, I like the sound of this already,” John says wickedly. 

“You made me spread my legs-”

John’s grip on his cock tightens a fraction, “Yeah?” he asks.

Sherlock nods, “And then you laid down with your head between my thighs.”

“Uh huh,” John hums and Sherlock can feel John's cock hardening pressing hard against his thigh.

“But you just teased me,” Sherlock says.

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“You let me sink inside of your mouth but only for a few minutes.”

“What did I do then?” John asks, slipping his hand lower to fondle Sherlock’s balls for a moment before sinking lower still to trace over his hole as though he knows exactly what he was doing in the dream. 

Sherlock bites his lip, trying to think of the least embarrassing way to say this, “You’d been massaging my buttocks and had just,” he clears his throat.

“Just...” John prompts, his fingers trailing feather-light over Sherlock’s hole. 

“Spread my cheeks,” Sherlock manages, a flush burning its way across his face and down his neck to his chest. 

“Oh,” John hums, “I love to do that.” 

Sherlock nods.

“I love to look my fill at the lovely, tight, little hole.”

He whimpers, clenching his eyes shut and clenching his fingers in John’s t-shirt.

“Do you think that I was going to use my tongue or my fingers on you next?”

“Tongue,” Sherlock whispers.

“Well, I like the sound of that very much,” John says. “Why don’t we pick up there and see what would have happened next?”

Sherlock opens his eyes to stare at his husband, “ I love you,” he breathes, brushing his fingers through the silver and blonde strands of hair at John’s temple.

“I love you, too,” he says, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s chest. “Get undressed and get on your hands and knees,” he says with a wink. “I’m going to go get the door.”

That had been a lesson learned the hard way when their four-year-old had wandered into their room one night. She was young and had no idea that they were doing anything that she shouldn’t have seen and they both hoped that she would have no memory of the incident, but it had been enough for them to always lock their door thereafter.

By the time John got back to their bed, they were both naked and Sherlock was already positioned on his hands and knees. “Beautiful,” John breathes and you would think that the word should have lost its appeal by now, with how often John says it, but it still makes something buzz warmly in Sherlock’s chest every time.

John’s fingers trail over Sherlock’s sides and back, caressing scars along the way, and Sherlock remembers the hours they’d spent lying naked in bed and telling one another about all of their scars. Swapping stories and kisses in the late afternoon sunlight. It’s not something Sherlock had ever expected, this intimacy, the way it feels to be deeply and truly known. 

John’s hands cup Sherlock’s buttocks, drawing him out of his reverie, “Ah, there you are.”

“I never left,” Sherlock says with a huff, glancing over his shoulder at John.

“You were miles away,” John teases, pressings a kiss to the dimple at the base of Sherlock’s spine.

“I was thinking about you,” he protests.

“Oh, yes?” John asks, his tongue flicks out and trails across Sherlock’s coccyx. He breathes hotly over the skin he’d just licked and Sherlock lets his head drop forward with a low moan. “What were you thinking about?”   


“That since the very first moment I met you, you have surprised me.”

John hums, and presses a kiss to his tailbone this time, “And if that’s not high praise, I don’t know what is.”

“Quite,” Sherlock huffs. John trails his nose between Sherlock’s buttocks lightly and Sherlock shivers with anticipation. 

The other man sticks out his tongue and drags it all the way from Sherlock’s perineum to his coccyx and Sherlock can’t help but moan at how fantastic it feels. The first time John ever did this to him he nearly lost his mind and not much has changed since then.

“You like that?” John asks, voice low and warm, stoking the flame in Sherlock’s belly even higher.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes. 

John’s hands grasp his buttocks a little more firmly and spread him wider as his tongue centers on his hole. He laps at it teasingly and Sherlock can feel saliva sliding down his crack.

He lets out a loud whimpering moan that would probably be embarrassing were it not a noise he’s made in front of John a thousand times. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” John groans against his flesh, “Just relax for me.” He licks over Sherlock’s hole again, his tongue broad and flat, hot and wet and it sends a shiver coursing up Sherlock’s spine.

He drops his head forward onto the pillow in front of him and closes his eyes to focus better on the sensations. 

After several more wet passes with the flat of his tongue, John changes his approach a bit. With the tip of his tongue, he circles around the rim of Sherlock’s entrance. Teasing and gentle, even though at this point Sherlock already feels like John could shove a finger inside of him and he’d be relaxed enough to take it. He feels John’s lips press against his hole, pressing and moving like he’s snogging Sherlock’s arsehole. 

“Fuck,” he breathes as a long string of pearly precome leaks from his cock and onto the bed. 

John moans against him, obviously sharing Sherlock’s sentiment. He sucks lightly at Sherlock’s rim and he can’t help the way his hips rock back toward John’s face, seeking more. 

The other man swirls his tongue in a circle around his hole, circling his flesh and relaxing all of the tight muscles there.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock groans. “Yes, please!” 

With a hum, John slowly presses his tongue inside of Sherlock’s body, wriggling it as he goes and making Sherlock wail with pleasure. His hands massage Sherlock’s buttocks, as they try to spread him even wider to allow him to thrust deeper.

“Yes,” he gasps, spreading his legs and hoping that will allow the other man to thrust in further still. 

John’s tongue sets to work then, thrusting in and out of his hole over and over, rolling and pressing against his flesh while Sherlock tries not to thrust his hips too hard lest he detach John’s mouth from his body. 

After all this time, John knows exactly how to use his tongue to completely dismantle Sherlock. The words escaping Sherlock’s mouth as John fucks him with his tongue aren’t really even words at all and he knows that John loves this, he knows that John would happily rim him until he comes screaming to completion. 

But that is not how Sherlock wants this to end.

“Stop,” he manages after several failed attempts at the word.

John, the conscientious lover that he is, stops immediately. “Something wrong, love?”

“Yes,” Sherlock pants, forcing himself to look over his shoulder at his partner, “I would very much like you to fuck me and if you keep doing that I am going to orgasm way too soon.”

John presses an open-mouthed kiss to his hole one more time before saying, “Well, your wish is my command.”

Sherlock groans at the terrible Disney reference. He could probably recite the entire movie of Aladdin from start to finish, Rosie has been obsessed with that one lately. He reaches over into the drawer of the nightstand, digging around until he finds what he’s looking for. “Here,” he says, tossing it over his shoulder at John who catches it deftly.

“Very romantic wording,” he teases with a wink.

“My brain can’t think,” Sherlock retorts, “It’s awash with hormones.”

“That might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me,” John returns as he smears a little lube over his fingers. “Ready?”

“More than,” Sherlock tells him.

John shakes his head but brings his slick finger to Sherlock’s spit-slick entrance just the same. He trails his finger around Sherlock’s hole in a circular motion, tracing the path his tongue had taken not long ago and Sherlock’s thighs quiver. “Gorgeous,” John murmurs, trailing kisses up his spine. 

“John,” he groans back. 

John presses his forefinger against his entrance and it slides in with very little resistance. “Fuck,” John groans, pressing his finger in and out of Sherlock’s hole, circling and stroking, curling his finger against Sherlock’s inner walls to stretch him. “You feel amazing.”

Sherlock can only groan and nod in reply, allowing the sensations of John’s finger entering him over and over to wash over him like waves, lifting him higher and higher. John covers Sherlock’s back with his body, pressing kisses to Sherlock’s shoulders and the top of his spine, murmuring endearments to him.

He doesn’t know when John managed it, but a few minutes later there is a second finger, generously coated with lube, pressing slowly at Sherlock’s entrance. “Deep breath,” John murmurs against the base of Sherlock’s neck. 

Sherlock nods and obeys, taking in a breath and feeling John’s fingers press in as he exhales, a moan forcing its way out of his mouth as he does.

“That’s it,” John moans, trailing wet kisses wherever his lips can reach, “So good for me.” 

His knees feel like they’re about to buckle and joy bubbles up in his stomach, John’s words always set his soul alight and it’s moments like this when he feels like they were simply  _ made  _ for each other.

“We were,” John whispers and Sherlock doesn’t know if he’s said it aloud or if John just knows him that well. “We were made for each other,” he says fervently, stroking his fingers along the inside of Sherlock’s body, curling until they kiss his prostate. “I have no doubt about it.”

Sherlock’s toes curl as John relentlessly teases his prostate, over and over again tracing circles around it, rubbing over it, even going so far as to tap it lightly as he scissors his fingers and spreads him wider. “John,” he moans and he can feel his cock leaking all over the sheets as his hips sway and twitch trying to get more of that delicious pleasure that sizzles through his neurons.

“I love you,” John groans. 

“Uh,” Sherlock manages as John’s fingers pull out almost all the way before pressing forward and rubbing over his prostate. “I-” he stops to moan again as John circles that sensitive bundle of nerves before drawing back and scissoring, “love you,” he gets out between thrusts of John’s fingers, “too. Fuck.”

He feels John’s self-satisfied smirk against his neck in answer.

“John, please,” he moans. “Add another so that you can fuck me.”

John kisses his shoulder and obliges him, lining up his lube-coated ring finger and easing it inside.

It burns a bit, the third one always does for some reason, but Sherlock relishes it. He clenches around John’s fingers as the fire spreads through the rest of his body, making him feel lightheaded and giddy. “Yes,” he moans. “That feels  _ so good.” _

John drops a soft kiss on his shoulder, whispering, “You feel so good.”

His body relaxes and John starts to move his fingers, pressing incrementally further inside each time. Stretching Sherlock open wider and wider on every pass before finally reaching his prostate once more. Then he starts massaging it again, ratcheting Sherlock’s arousal up higher and causing a low, thrumming heat to spread through his groin. “John, please,” Sherlock whimpers. It feels like he’s been aroused for an eternity.

John’s right hand, which had been gripping Sherlock’s hip to hold him still and keep Sherlock from impaling himself on John’s fingers as he so enjoys doing, slips around his hip and slowly strokes Sherlock’s cock. 

“Please,” he keens, “I need your cock,” he whimpers, “Right now.”

John’s teeth graze his shoulder as he groans, he loves it when Sherlock starts to get desperate. 

As he starts to withdraw his fingers, Sherlock seizes his opportunity. He pushes up and turns slightly, dumping John off of his back and unto the mattress. 

“Oh, is that how it’s going to be?” he asks with a grin at Sherlock as he straddles John’s hips.

“Yes,” he says, pouring some lube onto his hand before reaching back to coat John’s erection. 

John groans, his back arching as Sherlock caresses his hot, silky smooth flesh longer than strictly necessary. “I love your hands.”

“More than my arse?” Sherlock teases.

“Close call,” John replies with a wink.

“Give me,” he pauses and pretends to calculate something in his mind, “Three minutes and I guarantee I will change your mind.”

John puts his arms behind his head, “I’m all yours.”

“That’s true,” Sherlock whispers because it is. He leans forward and presses his lips to John’s in a tender kiss.

Immediately, John’s hands come up to cup Sherlock’s face, his thumbs brushing along his temples as he angles a bit to kiss Sherlock more deeply. “All yours,” he reiterates softly when Sherlock draws back and rests their foreheads together.

“Me, too,” he vows.

John’s hands slide down Sherlock’s neck and over his sides, caressing his ribs as they just stay there together for a moment, breathing the same air, thankful that by some miracle they are here together.

After a moment Sherlock shakes his head, “I was doing something, you know,” he chastises.

John chuckles, “Well, then by all means, please continue.”

Sherlock sits up and John’s eyes track his every movement. He smiles up at Sherlock, eyes crinkling at the corners and Sherlock wishes for the thousandth time that he could just crawl inside of John’s skin and live there, heart to heart.  John’s thumbs caress Sherlock’s hips and Sherlock shakes his head, “How do you still do this to me, John Watson? After all this time.”

“The feeling is mutual, I assure you, my darling,” he replies. 

Sherlock reaches behind him again, reapplying a bit more lube, before he rises up on his knees and presses John’s cock against his entrance. Slowly he starts to sink down, his hole stretching wide to accommodate John’s exceptional girth. “Fuck,” he breathes.

“Easy,” John whispers, his hands grasping a little tighter around Sherlock’s hips, slowing his descent. “Take a minute.”

He breathes, feeling John’s cock stretching him wide already and he’s barely sunk a third of the way down. It’s always like this, there’s a moment when, illogically, he can’t imagine how John will fit even though he has so many times before.

“Just relax,” John murmurs, stroking his fingers over Sherlock’s hips in soothing circles. “I’ve got you.”

After a moment, Sherlock rises back up and presses down again, engulfing more of John’s cock within his body. Pausing once more when the burning starts to tip from pleasure to pain.

“That’s it,” John encourages. “You’re so good for me, sweetheart, so perfect. You feel so good.” 

Sherlock feels his body opening further to accept John and he moans at how good it feels, he rises up and lets gravity help him lower his body onto John’s cock even further. Slowly he rocks up and down, up and down, undulating until his arse is resting against John’s hips and John is fully inside of him. 

They both take a minute to breathe, Sherlock to adjust and John to get used to the feeling of Sherlock’s body clenching, hot, and wet around him. 

“You feel good,” Sherlock breathes, resting his hands on John’s chest and circling his hips slowly. He moans as John’s cock drags against his prostate. “Yeah,” he breathes, tilting his head back and closing his eyes as he moves his hips in a slow circle once more in order to feel John’s cock create those sparks inside of him. 

“That’s so good,” John murmurs, and even though he isn’t looking at him Sherlock knows that John’s eyes are glued to him. He can almost feel his gaze like a physical touch as it traces it’s way down Sherlock’s throat and over his chest, pausing to appreciate the way his nipples have peaked in arousal, before trailing lower and lingering on his erection. His hands grip Sherlock’s hips and he raises him up a few inches before lowering him once more.

Sherlock groans and his head falls forward, between his shoulders. He starts to roll his hips with John’s careful motions, opening him up further.

“Feel good?” John asks him.

“So good,” Sherlock replies. After long moments of rolling his hips in little thrusts, Sherlock takes a breath and sits up straight. He opens his eyes and looks down at John who is watching him with rapt fascination. “Ready?” 

“If you are,” the other man replies. 

With a wicked grin that makes John grin back in reply, Sherlock kneels up until he can only feel the tip of John’s cock inside of him then slams down and begins riding John in earnest. He bounces up and down on his cock, squeezing around him and making them both cry out.

John lets him set the pace and get used to this for a few minutes before his fingers grasp tight around Sherlock’s hips once more and he starts to thrust upwards as Sherlock drops down, working in tandem. 

“Fuck, John,” Sherlock pants. “Yes. Fuck.”

“Can you lean back just a bit?” John encourages, bringing his knees up to help support Sherlock’s back as he does just that.

Sherlock keens as the new angle grinds John’s cock over his prostate. “You’re fucking brilliant,” he manages.

“And you are fucking gorgeous,” John replies. Snapping his hips up into Sherlock’s body. “I love you.”

“Me-” Sherlock moans as John’s cock works magic inside of him, fireworks explode behind his eyelids. “Fuck,” he groans. “Too.”

“Are you close?” John grunts.

“So close,” Sherlock whimpers, a bead of sweat trails down his neck and over his nipple, making him shiver. 

“Good,” John breathes and he snaps his hips harder, driving right into Sherlock’s prostate.

Sherlock wails and all but blacks out as he orgasms, ropes of come shoot out, covering John’s chest and stomach and a heartbeat later he feels John’s cock emptying inside of him. He groans, rolling his hips to prolong both of their pleasure. His cock dribbles a bit more come across John’s stomach and Sherlock drops across John’s chest like deadweight.

John wraps him in his arms, pressing kisses into his sweaty hair, “I love you,” he whispers. “You are fantastic.” 

He hums at him and presses a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to his shoulder. He can’t muster words quite yet.

He can feel John’s smile against his skin, and it makes him happy, John being happy. Which is ridiculous, of course, but that’s never changed anything as far as John is concerned.

They just lay together for an indeterminate amount of time, Sherlock has no idea how long it is. Eventually, though, after John’s cock has slipped from his body, Sherlock forces himself to sit up. 

“Let me go get a flannel for us,” John says, stroking Sherlock’s curls back. “You can just rest after that frankly spectacular performance.”

Sherlock shakes his head and pecks John on the lips, “Need to use the loo anyway.”

“You sure?”

He nods and presses one more soft kiss to John’s lips. He stumbles to the bathroom on slightly shaky legs and relieves himself before returning with a flannel to wipe down a very drowsy looking John. He wipes his stomach and his chest, then slides up to get the bit of come that had splattered John's collarbone. The other man catches his wrist and turns to press a kiss to the delicate skin at Sherlock's pulse point and it makes Sherlock's heart flutter hard in his chest. 

He collapses into John’s arms after tossing the flannel back into the bathroom, resting his head over John’s chest and listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. 

“So,” John mumbles and Sherlock turns his head slightly to indicate that he is listening. “Did I make it up to you?”

“What?” he murmurs through a sleepy yawn.

“Waking you up from your dream?”

Sherlock presses a kiss to his chest and tells John the most profound truth he knows before drifting off to sleep once more, “Any reality with you is better than the best dream.”


End file.
